The joint is mine, the wine is yours
London was lonely. Cold. Empty. As soon as the sun went down and all the pint glasses were sprayed with boiling water inside silver, industrial dishwashers—it was time for laptops and noodles. One of the most celebrated cities on the planet turned into an abandoned ship, drifting awkwardly through the cold, abysmal ocean. Sparkling, yet broken.
Sometime between one McDonald’s wrap and another, I received a message from a boy who also thought that all the sparkle didn’t amount to much. I don’t really like coffee, he told me when I invited him for one. So, we went for a walk. We ambled down Regent Street first, with union jacks dominating above us as a reminder of the harsh reality, and little Karl Lagerfeld figurines staring at our babyfaces from inside packed stores. He smiled at the pavement an awful lot, as if it was whispering secret jokes to him. I rubbed my nose as a reply each time.
A week later, we felt like walking again. I was grateful that the scenery had improved, and quite significantly so. We both left our unsatisfying flatshares, took the tube to Knightsbridge, and met outside the station. From there, we headed to Hyde Park because it was warm, half-dark, and difficult not to feel like we lived inside a 2010s movie about a group of friends who discover themselves on a camping trip.
T. thrived when we got away from the city center madness, and his emotions bloomed proudly and unguardedly. With no finance bros in sky blue shirts giving us looks as we walked past, no feeling of being heard or observed through a magnifying glass—I was able to see the flesh underneath his armor. He opened up beautifully. And having survived hundreds of demoralizing cocktail parties, those masquerades marinated in nauseating red light, I appreciated that.
When are we going to go for a drink, I asked one time while my hand was at the back of his head, touching his brown curls. I’m not really a big drinker, but I smoke weed, he replied. I don’t really do that, I then fed back. And those thousand-year-old oak trees were my witnesses when he announced that there was something we could try the next time. I smiled.
Another week had passed, and at the same time to the minute, we met outside the tube station. Earlier on that day, when I was rolling about in my sheets with empty cans by the side of my bed, he texted me to say that I should bring a bottle of wine with me. I chose white because it’s more casual than red. The only thing worse than not being enough is being too much.
That night in Hyde Park seemed a product of my loneliness-soaked late-night fantasies, daydreams that served as a vision board for my love life. The conversation flowed like the wine I had brought, as he told me about his uncle, who managed a designer outlet in London’s West End. That’s where T. worked.
T. shared his struggles with me, the metallic cruelty of his uncle’s words and the plans for the next few years. I can’t wait to graduate, he said. If I keep living with them, I will never be able to be who I really am. He looked at me when he said that, and his pace had increased. A guy in a neon green running set had jogged past, and for a brief moment, we could hear hip-hop blasting in his headphones. I knew it made him anxious when someone was nearby, so I brought up Lust for Life, an album we both listened to a lot at the time.
My cheap-ass, screw-top pinot was swinging from side to side inside my laptop bag. He had a joint tucked away behind his ear, partially covered by his thick, mahogany locks. Let’s go there, he said as he pointed towards a temporary fence panel, separating us from what looked like a daytime park café. It took a bit of convincing, but I agreed to jump the fence.
And what a sweet summer treat it was to sit by his side on that white, plastic chair. The type on which only the best late-night conversations take place. He told me about Islam, his degree, and Formula 1. I gripped my bottle of wine tightly in my right hand, listening to his stories as the birds chirped away above us, like those flags on Regent Street a couple of weeks prior, yet with no assumed judgement or contempt.
In my overwhelmed head, I kept asking myself if my Eastern European parents would ever accept him. I didn’t think they had ever met a Muslim before. Would the priests in my local town hate me even more? What would happen to the family dynamic if we were to ever make it work? I took a large gulp of wine and turned my eyes in his direction. I looked at him as he smoked his joint, with his head laid all the way back on that white, plastic garden chair. Oh, man! You make me so at ease, man. That’s what he said.
Later, as we were saying our goodbyes near the gates of Hyde Park, I took my necklace off and put it around his neck. It was a cheap, Topshop chain with an ancient-looking penny coin attached to it. He laughed, both with his mouth and with his red-colored eyes, which looked like they held dozens of nightmarish sightings and had a duty of keeping them away from his brain. Whatever happens in the future, this will always be the first thing a guy ever gifted me, he said. And that was the goodbye.
Every time I date a guy who has more masculine points than me, there is always this expectation to somehow try and match his point count. It’s like dating a toxic fatphobe who constantly tears you down with various microaggressions related to weight loss and “being the best version of yourself”. But during those brief few weeks with him, I never got to experience that feeling. And that made all the pointless sparkling appealing.
I can’t even describe how happy I was the next morning when I saw a message from him on my lock screen. With the side of my head still drowning in the pillow, I quickly opened it, hoping that maybe I could finally enjoy the sparkle that comes with the cruise. Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that the ocean was too vast, and the view from the ship was unlikely to improve anytime soon.
I will forever have you in my heart, the message read. But I am not ready for this, and I can feel that it will take me years to get to where you are right now. And I can’t let you go through that. I promise I will keep the necklace. You have my word.
I don’t live in London anymore, but every time I’m in the capital, I go to the designer outlet.
One time in 2020, I walked in, and he was there. He saw me. We looked each other in the eyes. What am I even doing here, I thought then, and left the store immediately. A middle-aged guy in running gear jogged past, and for a brief moment, I could hear hip-hop blasting in his headphones.
Mini-interview with Tomasz Lesniara
HFR: Can you share a moment that has shaped you as a writer (or continues to)?
TL: My first “wow, I want to do this” moment was when I discovered Dorota Maslowska as a teenager. She’s a Polish author known for her unique take on language. Her debut novel, released when Maslowska was just 19, was promoted as “Poland’s first-ever hooligan novel” back in 2002. Full of vulgar language, colloquialisms, and slang, it shook the nation so widely known for its conservatism and prudery. And I loved that.
HFR: What are you reading?
TL: I’m really trying to give Our Lady of the Flowers by Jean Genet another go. The book was first given to me by one of my high school teachers when I was sixteen. I like the themes, but the way it’s written gives me a headache.
HFR: Can you tell us what prompted “The joint is mine, the wine is yours”?
TL: It’s a true story. The whole situation happened in 2017. He was so kind, it’s actually baffling.
HFR: What’s next? What are you working on?
TL: Honestly, I’m working on getting an agent, I guess. I’ve been writing consistently since 2014, but I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere. Even when I have a manuscript, I won’t be able to do much with it unless I have an agent. I do have a lot of stories to tell. I’m young, but I’ve been around the block. My plan is to keep turning memories in my head into short stories. This is my first go at it, and it’s mild. We’ll see how it goes.
HFR: Take the floor. Be political. Be fanatical. Be anything. What do you want to share?
TL: I just want this year to be over. It’s been such a difficult year.
Tomasz Lesniara is a writer based in Scotland, originally from Poland. His essays have appeared in The Guardian, The Independent, Archer Magazine, and more. His poetry has been published in Poetry Ireland Review and Underbelly Press.
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